


A Place Where Time Flows Differently

by LunaGreenDay



Category: Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jungle, Being Lost, Ghosts, Implied Sexual Content, Magic, Multi, Spirits, Time Loop, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 21:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12307962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaGreenDay/pseuds/LunaGreenDay
Summary: Boys find themselves swallowed by jungle, fearing death until they reach a temple that seems like their only chance for salvation.





	A Place Where Time Flows Differently

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I haven't written anything in a long time, but I found an inspiration when reading Midnight's Children. I hope any one who comes across this enjoys, and I apologize for any mistakes. I wrote this at 4 am give me a break.
> 
> [Note: This is a repost. I took it down for a period of time, and I have decided to republish it. I haven't touched it since I first wrote it, so it's still in its most divine, unedited form lmao maybe I'll find time one of these days to make it better]

The monsoon couldn't have picked a better time to begin, rain soaking clothes to the bone as the four men pick their way through thick jungle. They've traveled for what feels like days, burdened by the horrors of war they've been forced to commit under masquerading falsely as mere citizens, slaughtering their own in what was thought to be for the greater good of Pakistan. Men turning on men. From the same country no less. Wasn't India supposed to be the greater threat? The Buddha muses to himself silently: men. They were not men, but boys. He was barely 16 years old himself, yet he was forced into this world of spilled blood and shattered skulls. Again, the Buddha corrects himself: not forced, but destined. Remember your tie to history.

Never ending rain in a place where time runs both too quick and too slow, hardened nerves slowly wearing thin over the constant pitterpatter of water drops hitting green leaves, and the buzzing of translucent insects. Men - boys, barely hanging onto what's left of themselves in dizzying heat where air is too damp to fully breathe into their lungs. No one speaks, but each mind is thinking it: they will not leave this place. They will die here.

Then, branches seem to grow apart, trees become less, the air is sweet, not dense. A clearing. Tall grass greets weary eyes, the buzzing of beetles is replaced by bird song that filters down from the jungle's edge. The men rub their eyes, surely this place cannot be real. Have they died and left their bodies somewhere behind them, left to be swallowed by rain and moss? No, this place is real. The ancient temple before them is too grand to be a product of the imagination, or better yet insanity.

Strong rock hewn from the earth creates a stairway up towards the sky. And where stairs end, smooth stone has been conjured to make a lavish home fit for Shiva himself. Men ascend the temple that, like the jungle, is timeless. Although it has been deserted and left barren of ritual, sandstone walls and floors remain so intact it's hard to believe that it has been abandoned for easily - a thousand or more years. Upon closer inspection, relief carvings are intricately sculpted into the walls, depicting scenes in which men and women are coupling. However, to the Buddha's shocking surprise, there are also many pictures of women wrapped around each other like inseparable serpents, and men bent over one another, pleasure clearly expressed on their faces. A statue of the goddess Kali watches from above them, her head meeting the ceiling that overhangs the arched doorway which leads further into the temple. She appears to be smiling.

Exhaustion hits all four men as soon as they reach the statue's feet. Both their legs and minds are tired, but they are glad to be out of the rain and into a real shelter, counting themselves blessed to have found a beautiful sanctuary to stay in. Dropping to their knees and touching their foreheads to the ground, they offer a quick prayer of thanks to whichever entity had its hand in their turn of good luck. And soon after, each man's head meets the floor in a different prayer, the prayer of sleep.

A breeze disturbs the dying light of day as time suddenly seems to tick forward again. The lingering presences take form as the red sun dips quickly. Cascading shadows begin to dance over four men as the last rays of twilight disappear behind the horizon of trees, lithe bodies stirring from a slumber, long awaiting the freedom that's brought when travelers find solace. Long, elegant fingers slide teasingly through men's hair and pull at clothing like wind. Eight eyes blink open at the sensations that fleeting touches leave on warm bodies. Surely they must have died this time.

Three women in long dresses that hide nothing, fabric too thin to cover the curves and dips of delicate golden skin. One man whose bare chest seems to glow, a shendyt of the same revealing fabric flowing off angled hips. Four beings of ethereal beauty descending upon men who are now fully awake in more ways than one.

Words are not spoken while hands explore bare skin and plump lips find one another in renewed darkness. Soft exhales and quiet sounds of pleasure fill the air when hips tantalisingly grind down, as moonlight kisses drops of moisture from arched backs and damp chests.

When the sun begins to rise again, the divine beings touch their lips to the faces of their partners, and leave the sated men with secret smiles that hold promises of undoings at the next sunset. Yellow rays of dawn filter through the thick trees, and the beings seem to unravel at their very cores. A soft breeze blows, and the quartet disappears as the wind sends the men into slumber yet again.

During the day, the men look for food in the surrounded clearing, finding an abundance of fruits and sweet drinking water from a nearby stream that seems to run from South to North. The Buddha stops to think. Which way does a stream normally run?

For three nights, dresses and a shendyt of wispy fabric float down to the floors of the temple. The beautiful, translucent moonlight forms take and give the pleasure of skin, skilled touches pulling sinful music from both parties. The golden man bends to whisper nothings into the shell of an ear, eliciting a sequence of gasps with hands scrambling to touch the planes of a sculpted, yet silky, chest. Fingers pressing to the hallows of angled hips cause a musical laugh to join the melody of other voices, and the pace between bodies to quicken. Three glowing women find their match, soft touches starting from the shoulders and then moving down, down, drawing music from three men.

It was only on the fourth day did any change occur. The Buddha is the first to wake, the sun painting his face a pale gold. One eye cracks open, followed by another when he turns to look at his fellows. The Change shocks him, forcing him to cover his mouth with a hand before the startled gasp can make it past his teeth. But his movements cause the other men to stir, and soon the Buddha is not alone in his horror.

The temple in which they had been living and loving in was no longer beautiful - it's in ruin. Cracks split the once smooth stone, fissures obscuring the relief carvings which are now unreadable. A transformation has overcome their version of heaven. The weathered Kali is missing her nose, she is no longer smiling.

However, this isn't what initially caused the Buddha's distress. His friends - and himself when he makes a point to look at his own body - had started to disappear. Feet and hands are not completely gone, arms and legs are not invisible, no. All four bodies have begun to turn transparent. A column of stone can clearly be seen through a torso, eyes have lost their colour and reflect the green of the jungle trees in the distance. It has stopped raining.

They must leave. They must run away from this place as fast as their legs dare to work. And they do, looking at one another, quickly packing away their belongings, gathering fruit, and grabbing canteens of freshwater. The Buddha is the only one who seems to notice one last abnormality as they flee. In a corner of the temple, overgrown with moss and vines, an ancient shrine can be seen. He tells the other boys to move quicker, fearing what may happen if the stay here any longer.

At the shrine, the remnants of four fires remain - funeral pyres that have been long extinguished once serving their purpose.

The breeze blows once more, and the air is filled with gentle whisperings in a tongue that's been long forgotten. Glimmering eyes watch as the boys race down crumbling steps and back into the trees. They do not look back at the ancient temple that's caught between past and present - an intricate illusion. Instead, boys turn from their solace of pleasure and comfort, and return to the jungle -  another place where time runs both too quick and too slow.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, Kudos, and Critique are always welcome. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!


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